Cyborg
by Sendai
Summary: Sherlock/StarTrek Fusion (Set in ST universe but no StarTrek Characters-for now). Sherlock Holmes is a pirate, who captures John in order to collect the bounty offered by the Federation and StarFleet for the former medical officer. Rated M. Eventual Johnlock(slow build). Written for Lets Write Sherlock Challenge 17. Chapter 2. In which Sherlock underestimates the commission.
1. Chapter 1

This is a new fic. It's a fusion set in the Star Trek universe. Don't ask me the Star Date, because I haven't figured it out yet. Lets just say it pre-dates events from The Next Generation. I am not planning any cameos from the characters from Star Trek. (no promises) This is the result of the **'Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 17: Crossovers and Fusions.'** (Which may or may not make it into the challenge because after I post this I have to figure out how to TAG in Tumblr.)

Warning. Sensors indicate that there may be Johnlock in the final chapters. Slash is possible but not certain.

**Warning. Rated M** because that's how I roll. (okay to be specific, there could be violence, adult themes, references to suicide, sex, adult themes...oh wait I'm repeating myself, again. I'll post more specific warnings if needed.)

I blame **I'm Nova** for setting me this challenge (and for inspiring me and encouraging me and for telling me how). Oh wait, even better. Let's **dedicate this to I'm Nova, **because dedications sound so much nicer than blame. :D

**Cyborg**

**Chapter 1. Running the Rapids**

The ship's hull groaned ominously.

Of course any weird sounds would seem ominous. After all, only a few inches of over-stressed metal stood between him and a sudden, cold, painful death in the vacuum of interstellar space.

The ship groaned again and the engine made that that funny keening noise, which mimicked an Aquilian banshee.

John was no engineer, but that eerie, high-pitched squeal coming from the engine couldn't possibly be a good thing. Then too, the red warning lights were strong hints that something was wrong, very wrong. He looked at the cryptic signals blinking all over the control panel and bit his lip.

Regretably, they did not teach navigation or ship maintenance in medical school, not even at Starfleet. Still he could try...Maybe...What if...what if he pulled power from the shields? He tentatively pushed a couple of buttons. Different lights turned red. He did not know if this was good or bad.

Just then, a charming, feminine, synthesized voice interrupted his musings.

**Warning: Matter/anti-matter drive reaching critical overload. Advise disengaging warp drive and proceeding on impulse power.**

"Oh yeah, impulse power, that'll get us the hell away from those bloody pirates," grumbled John wrinkling his forehead. Things must be getting worse, more of the buttons were flashing red.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, checking the sensor arrays for some miracle. Well he tried checking the sensor arrays; it took a bit of concentration and a brief uplink with the computer to display the scans in a format that made sense to him.

The news was not good. That interstellar dust cloud, which he'd naively planned to hide the yacht in, was still over an hour away at warp 5.8, which was apparently this vessel's maximum speed. And even _that_ speed was tearing the little yacht apart.

Not that it mattered anymore. Because the their pursuers could go a hellava lot faster than warp 5.8.

"Looks like we're not going to make it, sweetheart," he said rubbing his eyes.

On the other hand, '_it ain't over till the batwinged Twil-lady sings_' was one of his dad's favorite sayings. Besides, John was innately stubborn (got that from his mum), so he had to keep trying.

_ 'Probably would help to know where the bloody pirates are..._' he thought. 'I_t's possible that they might've run into some space junk and spaced themselves or fell into an uncharted singularity_.'

He uplinked in order to select a globular scan, which covered all possible vectors. '_Hmm. It looks just like that game I used to play with Harry, **Spacer 3000**_,' he thought widening and minimizing the views then widening them again. _'That little green dot must be us..." _he tapped his finger thoughtfully on the screen '_...and that big, __green, almost __stationary dot is them...'_

Stationary? Well hell, the space buccaneers were already here. Damn.

And bloody hell, they just fired phasers, not fifty yards off to the right side. They missed me? Maybe it was a warning shot?That communications packet would have come in handy right about now.

**Warning: Incoming Photon Torpedo.**

_'Oh, hell.'_

The torpedo exploded just to the left of the yacht. The ship trembled in the shock wave, and the engine's cry of distress went up at least an octave. And if that torpedo was just a warning shot, then John didn't want to find out what a direct hit felt like.

Like he had a choice. He bemoaned their lack of communications. He took a couple minutes to try messaging diirectly with the pirate ship using his personal communication link. Either his signal was too weak, or they were blocking messaging or maybe the pirate ship's telecom software was non-Federation or...

John wiped his sweaty brow and bloody nose, and he fought the urge to bang his head against the undecipherable control panel. He might as well drop his speed, since the pirates were already here. No reason to keep upsetting that screaming engine…

**Warning: Shields Failing.**

"Like those shields were ever gonna stop thier weapons," he muttered. He unconciously pursed his lips as he worked at the control panel, finally figuring out how to slow down their speed, and then, wonder of wonders, he successfully diverted power from the engines back to the shields.

He smirked, feeling like Captain Dirk James, the hero from Spacer 3000.

"Maybe that'll keep everyone happy for a while?" he asked aloud.

Or maybe not.

Even on impulse power, the engine's protest was skirling higher and higher. Not good. Defintely not good. He pinched his lips with his fingers and stared vacuously at the blinking lights and electronic gauges. His finger hovered over a red warning light.

'_Damn!Damn! Damn!'_ thought the pilot, _'I knew i should have finished reading _How to Fly Small Interstellar Craft for Dummies _when I had the chance__.'_

He looked around wildly, hoping for divine inspiration…any inspiration.

"Ideas?" he asked.

He received no answer.

"Right. It's not as though you're gonna answer. Bloody prima dona," he muttered some more.

Only an hour ago, he'd tried synching with the on-board computer yet again. And once more it had been another humbling, painful experience, because the bloody, on-board computer was clearly insane. In the end she had stupidly advised that he surrender and throw himself on the mercy of the heartless pirates, using this piece-of-junk spaceship as a ransom.

As if pirates understood the meaning of mercy. As if he'd abandon this ship now, after all they'd been through.

Of course they'd argued, bitterly. Of course, she wasn't talking to him…again.

Of course a few years ago, John would have just said the bloody computer was broken and walked away from it.

But that was then, and this was now. He _knew_ she was bloody psychopathic (if not psychotic). It hardly mattered what that made him. John knew he was broken and probably teetering on the edge of insanity himself. He pressed his hand against his mouth to keep from giggling hysterically at the idea.

**Warning. Incoming Photon Torpedo.**

The little ship kicked and bounced in the wake of the after shocks. The bucking reminded him of a summer vacation when his family rode the rapids, back when he was a kid. He couldn't remember where the river was...

**Warning. Incoming Photon Torpedo.**

The ship careened to the right, and John was nearly knocked out of his seat.

**Warning. Incoming...**

"Shut up!"

**...Photon Torpedo.**

Then the ship lurched hard to the left and tilted, as if it had just crashed into the rocks lining the rapids from so long ago. The pitching ship had tossed John out of his seat, and he had landed face first onto the control panel.

He saw stars, and not the ones outside the transparent aluminum windows.

He reached up to rub his face. It hurt, and he felt an alarming amount of wetness, which could only be…

He looked at his bloody hand. Yep, he was bleeding again, quite a lot. And not from his nose but from his forehead.

The engine's keening seemed to have stopped, which would have been a relief. Only there were strange new creaks and groans, and a strange hissing sound. The lights were dimmed and flickering.

Suddenly, everything was drowned out by a strident alarm, echoing through the small cabin and burrowing into his aching head.

"Goddammit! Turn off that goddam noise!" he demanded, in vain.

**Warning, **replied the computer, sounding inappropriately cheerful over the blaring alarm. **Mandatory engine shutdown initiated due to containment field failure.**

**Warning. Now operating on battery backup, shutting down all non-essential systems.**

**Warning. Hull breach detected. Advise emergency evacuation.**

'_Ohhhh. A HULL BREACH. That explains the hissing sound,' _thought John._ 'That's bad. Very bad.'_

He dragged himself up from the floor easily. Too easily, apparently the artificial gravity was a non-essential system, but with the air leaking out into space, the gravity hardly mattered.

**Warning. Life support systems failing. Advise immediate evacuation.**

"And just how the _hell_ am I supposed to evacuate?" he yelled.

**Advise donning your exo-suit.**

She was talking to him again. Brilliant-Not.

'No! No. No. No!" he shouted, trying to remain in his seat and interpret the flashing control panel, which was lit up like New Orleans during Mardi Gras, and about as meaningful as mimes to the former medical officer.

**Put on your exo-suit, John.**

"Stop telling me what to do!" he snarled.

Biting his already swollen lip, he looked behind him, a hose was spewing some vapor (probably poisonous), which was fogging up the cabin, which was lit up by sparks from some wires which had torn free from something, probably something _important_, like life-support.

He wondered where the hull breech was.

**Put on your exo-suit, John.**

"I don't _have_ a bloody exo-suit!" he shouted.

'_Never mind,"_ he thought to himself._ 'This. This is it; end of the run. You knew it was a suicide run, John. And now, now it's time to die.'_

He should have been happy, but of course he wasnt.

It was farking tragic irony. Hell, it was almost funny; he should be farking laughing out loud. John had tried to commit suicide three times in the last two years, and they'd always stopped him. He'd wanted to die, _so damn badly._

And now that death was here to gather him up at last, John didn't want to go. Instead he was once again stupidly praying, '_Please don't let me die,' _while he frantically tried to come up with another option. Any option. One last option.

The smooth, pleasant voice of the ship, run by that sadistic, crazy computer, continued to issue warnings and advice as if any of it mattered.

"Shut up," John yelled, "I'm trying to think here!" As if that stupid computer was going to start listening to him now. He needed options. Maybe… maybe if he tried to sync with her again, now that she had the upper hand?

Breathing was becoming difficult, perhaps due to the fumes and smoke. Or maybe it was that hull breach sucking out all the air. Shame it didn't suck out the smoke. He should look for an emergency respirator.

The ship heaved sideways again, but John didn't fall because he was beginning to float in the near zero gravity.

**Warning. Tractor beam detected.**

'_Huh. If they have a tractor beam, on us, the__ shields must be down," _realized the former medical officer._ 'And if my shields are down…Oh God, then that means they can transport…"_

He heard the mosquito-like whine of the transporter beam just before the ant-crawling sensation began to disassemble him, atom-by-bloody-atom. He really hated transporters.

He barely had time to think, '_I'm sorry, Mary,' _before the dying ship seemed to dissolve in front of his eyes.

* * *

**A/N **Thank you for reading this.

This is a multichapter fic which has been mostly written. But since I tend to edit and then re-edit and then rewrite and then rip the innards out of a chapter and then start over...well, I guess this will take a while to finish. I'll try to publish once a week like Old Ping Hai (one of my fanfic muses) and real life permitting of course.

Please review. I really depend on your reviews to tell me what's working and what isn't working. I really like constructive criticism. Any advice is appreciated: from pointing out spelling errors to letting me know if I'm too wordy or too OOC or whatever. I may or may not agree with your advice but I will learn from it, promise.

**Disclaimer **I do not own the rights to Star Trek or BBC SHERLOCK. This is probably no surprise to any of you :D

Ps Does anyone know where fan fiction's ABC/spell checker went to? I fear it may have been lost in a subspace wormhole or something. :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Cyborg Chapter 2- Don't Underestimate a Pirate**

"Transporter's locked on to the pilot, Sir," said Donovan. She shook back her thick, black hair, rattling the plaited beads. The woman made some adjustments adding, "and sensors confirm he's alone."

"Flying solo, as advertised…" murmured the captain, before he clapped his hands together, "Well, one thing is certain, Donovan, whoever he is, he is certainly no pilot," he drawled. "My grandmother could have flown that interstellar dinghy better than the damn fool who's sitting at the controls."

He sighed, as was often the case, this commission had proved all too easy, a three instead of the eight, as promised, by Mycroft.

DULL.

"**Sensors indicate he's losing life support," **said Molly's disembodied voice over the intercom.

"Well _of course_ he's losing life support," said Sherlock, in his 'isn't-it-obvious' half-whine, "He lost his engines, and he somehow managed poke a hole in his hull. Baah! Idiots like that should never get behind the controls!" scoffed the pirate, waving his purple silk-clad arm in disgust.

He turned back to the intercom mounted on the transporter controls, "Lestrade? Are you prepared for our guest?"

"**Aye, Sir. The 'guest quarters' are all set. Our guest's escort is waiting just outside the transporter room,'" **First Mate Lestrade answered immediately. **"And before you ask, the tractor-beam is holding steady on the yacht, as ordered. The boarding party and I have suited up, ready to take-over the ship."**

Good. Lestrade was keeping on his toes. They all were. No one wanted to forfeit this fat bounty, not like they had during that debacle in the Acamar system.

"Remember, our guest is a civvie," said Sherlock after a moment. "He's a midlevel bureaucrat who'd never left his home planet until a few weeks ago. We can presume he's a soft, pampered button-pusher, who's out of his depth. He'll no doubt be grateful that we captured him, saving him from dying in the cold, vacuum of space. So lets not terrify him into heart-failure with his escort…at least not until after I've had a chance to question him."

Lestrade's chuckle echoed out of the intercom, while Sherlock and Donovan shared knowing smirks. **"Copy that," **said his first mate,** "We'll keep Gladstone and Lorgh out of sight…for now."**

"And Anderson, keep Anderson out of sight too," added Sherlock.

Donovan sighed deeply but bit back any smart remarks.

"_**Yes**_**, Captain**," said Lestrade sounding irritated, no doubt on Anderson's behalf.

For reasons that Sherlock could not fathom, both Lestrade and Donovan liked the horrid mining specialist…especially Donovan. She liked the weasel a lot.

"Good," said the pirate captain. "Keep the boarding party on stand-by, Lestrade. We will scan the boat thoroughly, _before_ they beam aboard to salvage her. Then they scan can scan the boat again before we bring her into out docking bay…"

"**Sherlock! I mean, uh, Captain! The prize is losing air rapidly…um, Sir," **said Molly. He could almost hear her blushing over the intercom.

He turned back to the monitor mounted on the transporter controls, the little boat was indeed running out of air and their prize, Mister John Niemand, would soon be dying too, which would reduce the size of their bounty.

'_Poor little lubber is probably curled up in a heap, gasping out what he thinks are his last breaths. Pathetic. Still, he's worth a more alive, than dead."_

"Very well, thank you Molly," he turned towards Donovan, "Better beam him aboard now, before that little boat of his becomes his tomb."

Her beaded hair rattled again as she nodded. Using the preset coordinates, her capable brown hands danced over the controls for only a moment before the transporter began to hum. The small three-person pad flickered; a column shimmered like stardust, as a crouching man formed in front of them.

'_Just as I thought, a huddled heap ready to surrender.'_

Sherlock opened his mouth to give an order, and then saw the meek, little button pusher aiming a phaser straight at him.

The pirate captain dove behind the transporter controls, bringing Donovan to the floor and out of the line of fire.

Phaser fire danced precisely where Sherlock had stood a second ago. It trailed after him, the beam just glancing off his arm, numbing it, before the console hid them from the attacker's view.

Well, at least their 'captive' had set his phaser to _stun_ and not to_ kill_.

The buccaneer lifted his head, and peered cautiously at the man who gasped for air (he'd clearly been suffering from hypoxia).

However short of breath he might have been, the battered, bloodied blond braced himself, holding the phaser with easy familiarity, as he began to smile grimly.

This man was _not_ a soft, stupid, little bureaucrat with larcenous tendencies, which is how Mycroft had described him. This man was a fighter, a soldier...no he was a member of Starfleet

To reciprocate for his brother's lie, Sherlock Holmes mentally doubled the delivery price that Mycroft would have to pay to get the captive back.

Of course that meant actually taking the man captive. It also didn't change the fact that _Sherlock_ had grossly underestimated this Niemand. And Sherlock himself was responsible for beaming an armed, hostile and rogue member of Starfleet aboard The Redbeard.

'_He's a bold one,"_ thought Sherlock appreciatively, _ 'He would have made a fine pirate...But n__ow, it's time for damage control. Perhaps, the man can be reasoned with…'_

"Stand-up!" commanded the blond, still breathing heavily, "Keep your hands up over your heads." He waved his phaser threateningly. "Do it!"

The blond wore orange and beige coveralls (standard _Starfleet_ prison issue), and he wore a fixed, half-snarled grin. He did not look as if he was capable of being reasonable.

The pirate captain mouthed, "Stay down," at Donovan, before standing with his hands barely raised above his head. He forced an ingratiating smile onto his face.

The blond withheld his fire, narrowing his eyes to stare back at the buccaneer, but he did not lower his gun. Then he cocked his head, staring at the back of the transporter console, giving Captain Holmes a minute to assess the threat.

_'Mid-thirties. Injuries not serious. Definitely Starfleet but obviously not a line officer. He seems inexplicably interested in the transporter controls...or perhaps it's the monitor? Perhaps he's a science officer.'_

_'Regardless, our soon-to-be hostage is clearly not accustomed to dealing criminals, or more specifically with pirates. Because," _thought Sherlock, with a smirk twisting his lips, "_he doesn't seem to realize that when one is dealing with buccaneer, one should always stun first and talk later. Good for me-bad for him.'_

Niemand's nose began to bleed a little, no doubt from some trauma incurred when the little space boat began to flounder.

"Welcome aboard The Redbeard," said Holmes coolly, the blond dragged his attention back to the pirate, his cobalt blue eyes wide and sharp. "I may as well inform you that my ship has already initiated standard intruder protocol, Aether."

The transporter room began to flood with the very effective but very illegal Draconian sleeping gas.

"Bloody hell!" cursed the blond, rolling his eyes evident exasperation. "_Aether'_ was the bloody signal for the bloody gas, wasn't it?" asked the man, covering his mouth in a futile effort to avoid inhaling the gas. "Should have… just… stunned you… both…blood-y hel…."

As he collapsed, the short blond switched his phaser off…following standard Starfleet safety protocol.

Just before he too succumbed to the gas, Sherlock Holmes had time to mentally raise the commission's interest level from a three to at least a five…perhaps… even…a…six…

**A/N **Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think. Please Review.


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